


Pointy Horns and Black Hats

by Baphrosia (spuffy_luvr)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffy_luvr/pseuds/Baphrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's surprised by how steady his voice is.  His hands are anything but."</p><p>Giles is determined to make amends for his misspent youth.  But how does one make up for murder?  Pre-series.</p><p>Nominee: The Headline Awards (http://tonyhead-awards.livejournal.com/9608.html)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pointy Horns and Black Hats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punch_kicker15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punch_kicker15/gifts).



> Prompt: Giles and 'the early years'.  
> Three elements you'd like included: 1) Timeframe: early in Giles’s Watcher career, 2) A supernatural or magic threat brings out Giles’ ruthless side, 3) A weapon  
> Two things you don't want: canonical vamps (Angel, Drusilla, Spike, etc.), the Eyghon crowd.  
> Warnings: OC death  
> Setting: 1980-ish, England  
> Betas: foxstarreh, sparrow2000 (many thanks to Sparrow for Brit-picking and all-around beta-ing).

 

  
  
  
“Hurry up, boy,” Johnson says.  
  
With what he hopes passes for a deferential smile, Giles says, “Yes, sir.” Inside, his thoughts are far from deferential - in truth, they’re something that would make even his bandmates blush, but he stuffs Ripper down. Working with this pompous old toadie is one of the hoops Lassiter has set for him if he wants to be reinstated to the Watcher’s Council, and Giles indeed wants.  
  
Most days, that is. Right now, being treated as the recalcitrant teenager he hasn’t been for a close to a decade, Giles is having trouble remembering why he’s playing at prodigal son. It seems more effort than it’s worth.  
  
The inside of his left arm flares painfully in response to his wavering conviction, the brand hidden beneath his crisp and oh-so-properly starched shirtsleeve reminding him of exactly why he’s here: Ripper’s been a bad, bad boy, and needs to pay for what he’s done.  
  
Giles closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking off the echo of Ethan’s sultry, mocking voice, and the completely inappropriate physical reactions that come along with it. That’s in his past. All of it. What’s important is the future, and putting his ill-gained experience to good use for the betterment of mankind. Making amends, saving the world, etc. The current etc. being a field trip with Johnson the Council toadie to retrieve an unidentified artifact.  
  
Seated across from him in the back of the plush Council car, Giles observes that being a Council toadie has its benefits. He settles in for the hour-long drive to the building site where the artifact in question has been unearthed, and once his superior’s unending monologue is in full swing, he retrieves the Index of Blessed Weapons from his pocket and flips through it. Based upon the description and a blurry photograph, Johnson has determined the sword to be the lost Blade of Antiphony. In theory, Giles agrees with this conclusion, but something is nagging at him. He finds the entry and reads furtively, grunting the occasional answer in Johnson’s direction in an attempt to pretend he’s still listening.  
  
There is a small, cramped footnote at the bottom of the entry, and he leans closer, squinting.  
  
_The Blade of Antiphony is similar in appearance to -_  
  
“Rupert,” Johnson barks, noticing that he doesn’t have Giles’ full attention. “Is the lesson on proper Council procedure under these circumstances not interesting enough for you? No wonder you were booted out of the Academy.”  
  
Giles grits his teeth. He wasn’t booted out; he left, by his own choice. He has - humbly - pointed this out to Johnson on more than one occasion, but the man belongs to the same class of Council members as Giles’ father: those who make no distinction between the two.  
  
“I wanted to be sure I had all the necessary information to assist you properly,” Giles says. “Sir.”  
  
Johnson narrows his eyes, determined to find fault. Giles keeps his expression carefully neutral, not wishing to be accused of insolence. Again. Lassiter has warned him that he must learn to repress his anger and get along with even the most pedantic Council members if he is to be welcomed back into the fold.  
  
“I have already told you everything you need to know about the blade,” Johnson says, finally. “Shut that and pay attention, if you don’t want your ineptitude to make a muck-up of this.”  
  
Giles bites back Ripper’s answer and reluctantly shuts the book. “Yes, sir.” He leaves his thumb between the pages, however, and - sacrilege - uses it to fold down the corner of the appropriate page. He spends the remainder of the journey counting the pores on Johnson’s bulbous, red nose in an effort to remain awake and appear attentive.  
  
The driver reaches their destination in the mid-afternoon, and Giles pockets the Index as he exits the car. Outside, he stretches his legs and takes in the scene. To the left is the building site, littered with dozing machinery and dozing men. To the right is a large, institutional looking building with a sign that proclaims it to be the Bainbridge Home for Children. A scattering of small, somber children in a dilapidated playground gives credence to the name. When he twists, cracking his lower back, the opposite direction reveals rolling pasture dotted with sheep, and a wood in the distance.  
  
A tall, reedy man approaches them from the direction of the building site, and after introductions, leads them to a rectangular plot marked off with stakes and brightly-colored tape. One end of the rectangle has been partially excavated, and at the bottom of the hole, amid the broken rocks, glints a sword. Giles is surprised by how shiny the metal is despite the dirt patina.  
  
The other men have gathered around, but disperse at the foreman’s insistence. The foreman stares down into the hole with them. “What you reckon, then?” he says. “Roman?”  
  
“Possibly,” Johnson says, though the Blade of Antiphony - if that’s indeed what it is - is anything but. “If you could give us some space to work?”  
  
Once the foreman has left, Johnson gestures down the crumbly slope. “Well, boy, go and get it.”  
  
“Sir?” Giles says, surprised. He’d expected some attempt to divine what it is before retrieving the sword. It’s clearly mystical, even from this distance, and the Council’s strict protocols against handling unknown artifacts without proper precautions is one of their more sensible policies.  
  
Johnson smacks his not-just-for-show cane onto the ground , sending rivulets of dirt tumbling down the sides of the hole. “Would you have me get it?”  
  
“I thought that perhaps we’d first ascertain -”  
  
“You’re disobeying me?”  
  
“No, sir,” Giles insists. “It’s just, well, the entry mentions that the Blade of Antiphony can be confused with another weapon, you see -”  
  
He pulls the Index out of his pocket, but before he can get it open to the correct page, Johnson snatches it away. “You dare to question me? I’ll report you,” he says in a low, hate-filled voice. “You arrogant, disrespectful, _dangerous_ fool. The _only_ reason you have been allowed a second chance is due to the respect your father commands within the Council, but it is clear you do not deserve it.” With a flick of his cane, he motions to the sword.  
  
Giles looks down, then back at Johnson’s livid face. He considers walking away, for good this time. But he doesn’t want to give the other man the satisfaction, so mouth set in a thin, hard line, he carefully begins his descent.  
  
Up close, he’s even less willing to pick up the sword. The Blade of Antiphony is harmless - blessed, even - but he hasn’t read enough of the footnote to know if its doppelganger is also considered harmless. With the way it glints, so shiny and eye-catching despite having been buried for who knows how long, he’s not willing to take any chances. He knows what can happen when the mystical is not treated with respect, has seen what can happen with his own two eyes, and, worse, has caused some of those horrors himself.  
  
He toes away some of the rubble, then squats down and tugs a handkerchief out of his pocket. Wrapping an object to prevent contact with the skin is typically sufficient to keep from triggering any effects, and Giles hopes it will be the case here. With a mental thank you to his grandmother for stressing to him the importance of always carrying a large, clean handkerchief, he wraps the handle and then grasps it. The ease with which it comes free heightens his suspicions. In his experience, objects intended for nefarious purposes often possess a malevolent, almost sentient will of their own, somehow making it as easy as possible to be found - and used.  
  
It’s more difficult climbing out of the hole than it was going down, especially with a sword in his hand that he’s doing his damndest not to touch, but Giles is still young and spy, at least compared to Johnson, and he makes it to the top in under a minute. His trousers are destined for the rubbish bin, though.  
  
Johnson glares at him. “You’re a disgrace.” He grabs for the sword, and Giles pulls away without even thinking about it.  
  
“Sir, I really think we should double-check the entry,” he says in his most respectful voice. “I want to be certain I’m following Council procedure properly, as you’ve instructed. It would be good practice for me.”  
  
“ _Insolence_. I’ve had enough of your attempts to undermine my authority. Now give me the damn thing before I run you through with it.” Before Giles can react, he’s grabbed the handle and pulled it from Giles’ grasp. Johnson switches the sword to the other hand, handkerchief falling to the earth, and stalks away without another word.  
  
Giles only has a moment to be relieved that he was mistaken, and then Johnson jerks to a halt with a pained gurgle.  
  
“Sodding _hell_ ,” Giles says, snatching up the handkerchief and racing to catch up.  
  
He tries to take the sword back, but the attempt spins Johnson’s stiff body in a jerky arc, revealing the older man’s panicked eyes. His hand appears to be fused to the pommel, refusing Giles’ attempts to free it.  
  
“Help me,” Johnson gasps, and then - changes. He grows bigger, scalier, uglier, and his eyes gleam red and vengeful. The scales harden into metal plates the same color as the sword.  
  
Johnson’s clothes drop to the ground in tatters, and Giles lunges for the coat, desperate to retrieve the Index. The demon possessing Johnson appears familiar, but he can’t quite remember why.  
  
Giles ducks and rolls to avoid the swing of the sword. He manages to snag Johnson’s coat on the way, and comes up behind the demon with the Index in hand. Winded, he scuttles backwards, looking from side to side for a convenient place to duck out of sight long enough to read the entry for clues. He hopes the demon is the out of sight, out of mind type.  
  
Except - _oh, bugger_. The workmen from the building site are running towards them, and the demon turns with a roar to meet them. Giles follows, yelling, “Get back! Get out of here!” Whatever Johnson has become, these men are not prepared to deal with it. Neither is he, but that’s a different story.  
  
The men flee into the onsite trailer, and Giles sprints past the monster and joins them, slamming the door shut just as Johnson thuds into it. “Keep that barred,” he says, and steps aside to let two burly men carry out his command.  
  
Outside, the thuds continue, distracting him, and he flips past the page twice in his haste. He finally has it and reads hurriedly - _similar in appearance to the Sword of Danjin_. Giles looks up, unseeing, and mouths the word.  
  
_Danjin_.  
  
The memory clicks. Danjin was one of the demons Ethan had considered summoning, back in the day. It was possible to summon Danjin without the sword, but impossible to return him to his home dimension without it. The only way was to decapitate him with his own sword, which meant decapitating the host.  
  
Ethan had lost interest upon learning that little tidbit, thank goodness. Or maybe not thank goodness, since it had meant he’d moved on to Eyghon.  
  
Shame rolls over Giles at the memory of what he’s done - what he’d had to do to Randall. He swallows, realizing - what he’ll have to do to Johnson.  
  
_Dear God._ He shakes his head, rejecting the idea. Much as he dislikes Johnson, much as it is Johnson’s fault they are in this mess, he can’t bring himself to consider murdering the man. There has to be some other way. If he can contain Johnson, maybe the Council can find another way to free him from the demon’s possession.  
  
Besides, the buggering sword is fused to Johnson’s hand. Even if Giles were considering it - which he’s _not_ \- how the hell is he supposed to decapitate Johnson with a sword that’s a part of him? There’ll be no leverage.  
  
“Right,” he begins, shouting over the sound of the door slowly splintering under the demon’s repeated onslaught. The men turn to him. “Here’s what we’ve got to do: we’ve got to capture the - the creature - out there.”  
  
Giles is about to ask if they have something sturdy enough to serve as a cage when the thudding stops. Everybody falls silent, holding their breath. It’s eerily quiet, the heavy, stuffy silence as stifling as the scent of the men’s fear. _Get a move on_ , he berates himself, but before he can ask his question, he hears a high, thin scream, and then another, twining together in a crescendo of terror.  
  
The children.  
  
The faces staring back at him blanch, and he’s sure his does too. “We need a cage,” he says roughly. “Get something - anything - and I’ll lead the creature to it.”  
  
“Why not kill it?” the foreman asks.  
  
“Because. Just - because.” He shoulders his way to the door and wrenches it open.  
  
Outside, Giles takes a quick breath of sunlit air, orienting himself, then breaks into a sprint. Good thing he gave up smoking. Converging from the right is the Council driver, an axe across one shoulder and a crossbow dangling from her other hand. She’s middle-aged, an employee of the Council but not a trained Watcher; just somebody’s aunt who needed a job. Her expression is terrified, but grimly determined.  
  
“I heard children, Mr. Giles, and couldn’t stay in the car…”  
  
“I understand, Mrs. Chalmers.” He takes the weapons from her. “What else do we have? Are there any chains, or something else we can use to restrain a demon?”  
  
Frowning, she says, “I’d have to look.”  
  
“Go. Do that.” Giles doesn’t want her anywhere near Danjin.  
  
“But why do you want to restrain it?”  
  
“Just _go!_ ” He can see the children, two small forms huddled together, thin arms and legs wrapped around the overhead bar of the swing-less swingset. Danjin is circling them, scales and sword flashing in the sun. An older woman emerges from the building, and stops short at the sight. When she spots Giles, he motions her back inside. She hesitates, and he motions again, more sharply this time.  
  
Without waiting to see if she complies, he creeps closer, then sets the crossbow beside the see-saw. Neither crossbow nor axe will hurt Danjin, but at least he can use the axe for self-defence until he works out how to subdue the demon. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots three more children huddling behind the roundabout, eyes huge, mouths slack.  
  
“Run!” he hisses, flapping his hand in the building’s direction. They don’t.  
  
Danjin pokes his sword upwards, prompting a whimper from the children above, and Giles flaps his hand one more time before giving up and focusing on Danjin.  
  
“Johnson, let go of the sword.”  
  
The metal-plated monstrosity turns to him, chortling. “Idiot boy.” The voice is demonic but the inflection, the contempt, is all Johnson. “Release my power? I think not.”  
  
Well, it was worth a try. And at least now the demon’s attention has been diverted from the children. Giles runs at him, axe held high, a war cry on his lips. He has no plan other than to drive the demon away from the children and back over to the building site.  
  
They meet with a clash of blades. It’s clear Giles is well-matched in skill, but it’s equally clear that Danjin can not lose his sword. No matter how many times Giles delivers a blow that should have knocked it away, it remains fused to Danjin’s hand.  
  
But then something curious happens. After taking repeated hits to his right wrist, Danjin tosses the sword from his right hand to his left. For a split second, the sword is not connected to his body in any way, and Giles thinks that during that moment, Johnson looks less like a demon and more like himself.  
  
The fight resumes. Giles grins, realizing that in the in-between moments when the sword is free, it can be knocked away, and the demon defeated and restrained. He attacks with renewed vigor, with the twin goals of forcing Danjin to switch sword hands and herding him back to the building site.  
  
Danjin complies with the former but not with the latter, and Giles belatedly realizes that the demon has been circling the playground, steadily driving the three children that had been hiding behind the roundabout, and another two under a slide, into the center of his circle, right beneath the swing set. He now has seven children within reach of his blade. Seven hostages.  
  
Seven innocents.  
  
“Come on, you bastard,” Giles says. “ _Fight_ him, Johnson.”  
  
Danjin-slash-Johnson tosses the sword from hand to hand, visage slipping between more and less demonic versions of himself. Giles’ eyes follow the sword, getting a feel for the timing, but he loses count when Danjin rasps, “You’re still so young. So idealistic. You haven’t learned yet that power is all that matters. I thought I had power, but I was wrong. I understand now what power is.” He grabs one of the children and pulls her close, taloned hand around her quivering neck. “And I like it.”  
  
One of the demon’s fingers strokes the child’s cheek. “Such power in innocence. I could feed from theirs for months.”  
  
“I won’t let that happen,” Giles says.  
  
Danjin lets go of the girl, absently, and tosses his sword from hand to hand as he studies Giles with cocked head. “Surprising. There’s still a vein of innocence in you, waiting to be mined. I wouldn’t have thought it possible after all you and Eyghon -”  
  
Giles isn’t listening. He lunges, thrusting the axe upward, and catches the sword. It goes flying. Danjin jerks in surprise, giving Giles a head start, but then roars and sprints after it as well. Children scatter as they both race to retrieve the weapon.  
  
Swordless, Danjin has again partially morphed back into the slower, clumsier Johnson. Giles is first to the prize, letting out a triumphant “Ha!” Without breaking stride, he drops the axe and scoops up the sword with the now far-less-clean handkerchief, and whirls to face his possessed companion.  
  
Johnson has the discarded axe in one hand and a child in the other, axe blade pressed to her tender neck. “Go on, try to decapitate me. Mine won’t be the only head to roll.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning to. Leave quietly, Danjin,” Giles says. He’s surprised how steady his voice is. His hands are anything but.  Beneath his shirtsleeve, the mark of Eyghon burns. Johnson’s death is not an option. It _can’t_ be. “I only want Johnson back.”  
  
“Idiot.” The blade flashes.  
  
The child falls.  
  
_“Nooo!_ ”  
  
It’s too late. Shaking, Giles looks away, willing himself not to vomit. When he looks back, Johnson is once more bulkier and scalier, despite not having the sword. Worse, he’s dragging a little boy out from under the roundabout.  
  
No. _No_. This will not happen.  
  
_This. Will. Not. Happen._  
  
Giles surges forward, determined to put an end to Danjin. If Johnson must pay, the way Randall paid, then so be it.  
  
Johnson looks up, child in tow, an evil grin spreading across his distorted features. Giles swings the Sword of Danjin with cold, calculated precision.  
  
His soul is already damned. What’s one more stain?  
  
  


 


End file.
